wellie wellie well...watching clockwork orange and sipping...wait for it...snapple! (nah, blonk)/ 'd a g'd day/ out for b'fast with the woman and then to the stationary shop/ they are the only 'local' business i try and support though i'm not sure why/ i have no personal allegiance to the owner or staff and i certainly feel no compunction to support anyone at a greater cost to myself/ have they not set up shop of their own volition, to benefit none but themselves/ i sympathise to an extent: who can possibly rival the supermarkets/ but when one considers the high prices and generally off manner of most local shop-keeps what reason has passing trade to stop?/ yeah thats right, none/ and so ends my rant/

drinking tyskie, an excellent polish lager, winner of the 2005 Munich grand prix and 6.2%/ listening rolling stones, 19th nervous breakdown/ az bin an ix doy, troowlie ex.../ lunch was minraud flecked ecstasy, washed with stella/ then pharm for rx, after house of marcus for orx twain, an electric smoke of sharp blue and lung bliss/ carn't complain, reallie, nah mean?/ love to One 'n' each, and a wee yarn to gift/

si'k ag'in

I open the door and step out into the street. The air is warm and damp after the rain. My body is heavy. My bones ache. It is mid-afternoon, and the beginning of the second wave of sickness. It arrives like clockwork. Each day I wake at about 1100, throat painful and dry, skin burning, bones hollow and brittle. My girlfriend strokes my face and it feels like a thousand hot knives scraping down my flesh. I wince and say nothing, rise and down three 30ml measuring caps of methadone. This holds me till the second wave which begins mid-afternoon. In this weather it is particularly uncomfortable: a dull, cavernous aching in the bones, dryness of throat enamoured by the diuretic weather, flesh fevered and heavy.

I start from Earlsfield SW16 for Ambler Road, N15. First I walk to the station. I stop at Londis en route for a can of K: 99p, 8.4%. I then purchase a ticket, pass through the barriers and mount three tall flights of steps, arriving at platform B. The trains are regular. I board the next one, sit down and try to read. Failing this I attempt to ignore the unravelling sickness by concentrating on petty details, scenery &c.

I arrive at Vauxhall, disembark, descend five flights of stairs and pass three more barriers before an escalator takes me to the Victoria line. I wait. Its 2 minutes till the next train. A gust of wind curls around my neck. My brow is hot and streaming sweat. I pat at it with the sleeves of my shirt in vain. The sweat comes relentlessly. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and see that my neck is glistening. I sip from my can of K.

A train approaches, bringing with it a vile gust of warm air. I fail to finish a learned piece on the value of friendship from a Gallo wine advertisement. The doors open and I step in. I sit and rest my head again the glass, aware of the thick sweat leaking from my scalp. My hair squelches as I lean back and try to rest. I cannot rest however as I am too aware of the sweat dripping from my armpits and coursing down my sides. I feel foul. I wipe my arm over my face and marvel at my clothing which is now translucent.

The train arrives at Oxford Circus. My heart leaps: I’m halfway. A horde embarks and some loathsome OAP glares at me, wanting my seat. I remain. Some pious fuck makes a pantomime of giving up his seat, and she makes one accepting it. I hope my degenerate appearance makes her feel uncomfortable. I grin at her and swig K, sweat pouring down my neck and dripping from my eyelashes.

The train finally reaches Finsbury Park. My brain feels as if it has boiled. Perhaps it has. My ears feel as if they have been gang-raped by a roving militia of flames. My earlobes are lead. I stumble off the tube and head for the stairs, shivering ecstasy as a cold blast of air hits my chest. I mount the stairs, cursing the idiocy of my fellow travellers. I elbow people out of the way till I reach the top. This is the Piccadilly line, southbound platform. A train’s there. I jump on, the doors hiss shut and I’m off.

the artist is the disease of society. flaubert

reading guy de mau, a master of the short story/ you might begin with the duel/ feeling gurrd/ sypn blonk and working/ i rewrite so much my work sometimes 'smells of the lamp' an obie (trice, obie trice, har-har)/ NE-path, out to lunch at 1200/ fallen out with my brother over his maddening indolence/ relationships cannot be a one way deal/ fuck it/ one must become detached otherwise the head becomes twisted/ heaven from hell, hell from heaven, all that/ mutability is our tragedy but it is also our hope/ fuck the absolute of the absolute will fuck you, &c &c &c/

f'n' g'd/ jus' r't'rn'd f'm 'n 'utd'r sw'm, now seated with bier at my gauche/ lunch today: nasi goreng/ slept well the past cpl ngts, day drinking from 0830 till about 1900 when i drop/ then sleep about 12hrs and awake refreshed/ toying with the short story, as per/ they are getting better with practice, tho' i'm extremely critical/ moreover some days i think my work excellent, other no better than a dead dogs dick/ 've n't wr't'n 'ny p'ms 'n a w'l', tho' am applying some poetic technique, viz. concentration of info. to the short story/ each sentence a little jewel...